


parallax error: angle of inclination

by min_mintobe



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Atsumu thinks about Sex, Character Study, M/M, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, but no actual sex is had, of the hand-washing kind
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-06
Updated: 2020-08-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:22:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25748848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/min_mintobe/pseuds/min_mintobe
Summary: But now there's the one person Atsumu'd promised himself never to touch. His eyes leave Atsumu breathless with guilt at seventeen, and he spends the next six years safe in the satisfaction of making things right.Feelings, of the physical kind, and one kiss.ft. competitive spirit, childishness, and late night conversations.Atsumu POV.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 77
Kudos: 659





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Parallax error occurs when an object (of affection, or of the physical kind) is viewed along two different lines of sight. Parallax may be measured by the angle of inclination between these two lines of sight. 
> 
> I wanted to write a story about two people looking at each other; about the degree of attraction between them; about how they converged for a moment. 
> 
> Thank you to the SASS discord darlings who gave me endless support and encouragement, and made this fic possible ♥
> 
> Companion fic (Sakusa POV): [parallax error: line of sight](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26213260)

* * *

One version of their first kiss goes like this: 

A year ago, Sakusa Kiyoomi walks into the MSBY Black Jackals locker room and takes up occupancy in the third left locker and Atsumu's heart. 

"Miya," he'd intoned, eyes dark, voice flat. 

Atsumu's heart had swallowed that ( _irritating, perfect_ ) sound and plunged straight into the deepest depths of enmity. 

"Omi-kun," he'd smiled back, eyes and mouth tilted into slits. "Nice to have you here!" 

_Nice to have you here on the same side of the net now, when you've been beating the socks off me in every game since we were sixteen_.

Six years later, Sakusa still calls him _Miya_ , even though he'd explained at least seven times that Osamu was _Miya_ too. Once, after Itachiyama had wrested a painful Interhigh victory from Inarizaki, Sakusa had nodded to Atsumu and Osamu in acknowledgement. 

_Miya_ , he'd said, condescendingly, nodding at Atsumu. And then _—_

_Miya_ , he'd said, not half as condescendingly, nodding at Osamu. 

Atsumu's grief over losing had turned into immediate, incandescent _rage_. Osamu had laughed about it all the way to the bus. 

And now Sakusa is joining the Black Jackals, nodding silently to the rest of the team as Coach Foster introduces him. 

Fresh from tryouts, Sakusa is taller than Atsumu remembers. Quieter, prouder, and more settled than he was at sixteen, when Atsumu first felt the biting sting of Sakusa's judgement. 

* * *

They play together for the first time at the National Youth Training Camp. Sakusa's a careful spiker. Atsumu knows this. The way Sakusa ( _concisely, bluntly_ ) judges people's sets and _sometimes_ finds them wanting makes his fingertips ache. 

_"Too low."_

_"Need it further from the net."_

_"That was fine."_

_"Ugh."_

Sakusa groans, but he still jumps, still spins points off their low, sub-par sets. 

Sakusa's an excellent ace. 

_I'll set for you_ , Atsumu suddenly thinks. _I'll show you how it's done_. 

Inarizaki's spikers are strong as hell. Aran; tall, broad, and packing so much heat Atsumu always, always thrills when he can toss to him. Gin; fiery and rash, leaping up with so much faith it makes Atsumu choke. Osamu; his own heart, his own twin, always there. This floppy-wristed ace across the net doesn't spark a single iota of joy in Atsumu. 

And yet. 

It chills something inside Atsumu to know that there are spikers out there good enough to carry an entire team; good enough to turn a poor set into a brutal kill.

 _You don't matter_ , spikers like that say to setters like him. _My strength is enough_. 

Wakatsu Kiryu, an unforgettable force on court. Fast as lightning, spikes echoing like thunder. 

Ushijima Wakatoshi, south-paw serves grinding the globe to a halt; forcing the entire world to revolve around him. 

Sakusa Kiyoomi, close enough to touch.

Atsumu can't wait to play with him. 

* * *

Sakusa's disgusted groan, then, had sent a shiver of heat down Atsumu's palms and calves. It’d ignited in him the tragically Pavlovian desire to never let Sakusa find him wanting. The fact that he does this by perfecting, over the next seventy-two hours, the exact kinds of toss Sakusa has never had the pleasure of receiving, is _—_ well. Every fleeting, satisfied smile passing across Sakusa's face is a precious thing. It warms Atsumu's heart to know Sakusa will go back to Itachiyama, back to his perfect setter with his perfect tosses, and never again be satisfied. 

Sakusa's disgusted stare, now, sends prickles of anticipation up his palms. Sakusa's the spiker running up as the Jackals move through spiking drills. Atsumu takes a deep breath. If Sakusa's anything like he was at sixteen, Atsumu will gladly give him a toss that's everything he wants. 

They sync up perfectly on court. 

Sakusa shoots him a tight, small smile. Coach Foster nods, pleased, and just like that—so easily, so quickly, Sakusa becomes part of the team. 

* * *

Atsumu is quiet in the morning, ego not yet stirred up by the eyes and ears of the world. He likes being up early, relishes the burn of a pre-training workout. He's the lone occupant of the locker room and gym early in the morning, before the rest of the team drag themselves in. 

"Janitor unlocks it at 5 AM," the team manager had told him when he joined the Jackals two years ago. "Feel free to come in and shower or warm up before practice." 

Atsumu had taken her up on it, jogging there from his apartment and circling the block a few times before doing his own static exercises. He's always alone. 

The day after Sakusa first joins the Jackals, things change. It's a cold winter morning. Atsumu feels wetter than he'd like to, shirt soaked with sweat going cold in the chill of the locker room. He carefully eases his shirt off his back and over his head, not wanting to ruin the good morning music by pulling his earbuds off. He towels himself off, pulls on a dry shirt, and notices Sakusa standing at the locker room door. The irritated, half-hidden look Sakusa’s giving him isn’t worth spoiling his morning for. He doesn't bother greeting Sakusa or pausing his music, just nods, smiles, and waltzes past Sakusa and out the door. Static exercises are waiting, after all. 

Sakusa comes into the gym when he's halfway through his second set of lunges, carrying a yoga mat. Atsumu watches out of the corner of his eye, morbidly fascinated by this insight into the inscrutable Sakusa Kiyoomi. Sakusa does _yoga_. Atsumu had tried it a few times, but never quite managed to enjoy the slow, frustrating slide through different positions. He likes his exercises short and focused, builds muscle through targeted training and flexibility through specific stretches. Sakusa, long and _very_ flexible in his periphery, seems to be enjoying his own routine; he slides from pose to pose with eyes closed, limbs firm. After a while he seems to be repeating poses, so Atsumu stops watching, annoyed with himself for the minor lapses in form when he'd angled his head for a better view. He goes back to his own exercises. When he finishes, Sakusa is in the middle of a complicated levitation; his body is a long, lean slant suspended in the air while he somehow balances on his two palms. His eyes are still closed. Atsumu admires this frankly intimidating display for five seconds, then remembers that the onigiri in his bag still needs to be eaten. 

* * *

Practice that day goes well. 

They try a few different rotations in the afternoon, figuring out how to work Sakusa in alongside Barnes and Bokuto. It's a powerful, powerful feeling, to have so many heavy hitters at his disposal. Atsumu is in his element, joy vibrating throughout him as they come running at his call, eyes always fixed on the next toss, next block, next play. 

Meian is bossier than usual, full of ideas on how different rotations and plays could work. The Jackals are energetic, hungry; they fall into old plays and new formations with equal enthusiasm, chasing down the next kill, the next win. 

Atsumu is constantly aware of Sakusa, the only new player taken in during this round of tryouts. He measures Sakusa up against their other hitters and blockers, takes note of his damnably reliable serve receives, feels his breath catch a little at the wicked, twisting spin Sakusa's wrists put on the ball. He's good, so good, and it doesn't take the team long to warm up to him, smiles and calls of _nice kill_ following Sakusa's brutal spikes. Sakusa, unfortunately, seems to grow colder and colder as practice goes on, stiffening more and more with each attempted high five, each unavoidable clap on the back. Atsumu, well aware of Sakusa's prickly distaste for being touched, keeps himself at a respectful distance. He’s vaguely aware of Bokuto doing the same. The rest of the team remains oblivious, thumping Sakusa on the back and clapping him on the shoulder with each successful play. Barnes nearly sends Sakusa flying with a particularly high-spirited slap on the back, and Atsumu feels a mild twinge of pity at the tortured expression on Sakusa's face. Only a _very_ mild twinge.

They play four sets in two different rotations, then move on to the last rotation of the day. 

Coach Foster splits the first-string members on either side of the net for the last two sets of the day. He puts Atsumu, Barnes, and Inunaki on one side with Sakusa and their second-string middle blockers. Meian and Thomas are on the other side, with Bokuto and a few other players filling in the rest of the team. 

"I want to see if Inunaki can pick up everything Sakusa bounces off their blocks," Coach Foster says. "Don't get in the way of his digs." Sakusa's wickedly spinning spikes are a double-edged sword, coming back to bite the libero on their side of the net whenever they hit a block. Inunaki grins wolfishly at the challenge, and the set begins. 

By the time they're halfway through, Sakusa is starting to look a little ragged around the edges. Their current rotation is hitting a good groove, getting in a nice number of spikes even though they're facing off against both first-string blockers across the net. Meian and Thomas are a brutal duo, but Barnes and Sakusa keep them on their toes, spinning balls off their blocks and sending a good number thundering straight down into the other side of the court. Inunaki is doing well too, getting the hang of retrieving Sakusa's failed spikes. The set is almost over, they're running up to the winning point. Atsumu wants the toss to go to Sakusa, but when he glances over, Sakusa isn't looking at him. Sakusa still runs up for the toss, still jumps, but the call for the toss doesn't come. Atsumu sets it over to Barnes, who smashes it over Meian's face easily. 

They win, and pile onto Barnes barking in excitement, congratulating him on the last spike. Atsumu doesn't miss the quick flash of relief that passes over Sakusa's face. _Sakusa didn't want the last toss_ , Atsumu realises. _He knew we were going to win and just didn't want to deal with the aftermath_. This is a completely unacceptable state of events. For a spiker to shrink away from the toss, not because of any actual lack of skill, but simply to avoid the congratulatory back-pats, after? _What arrogance_. _What cowardice, what—what the fuck is wrong with Sakusa_. 

Atsumu makes pointed eye contact with Bokuto during the next water break. They're moving into the last set of the day, and Sakusa looks like he's one clap on the back away from quitting the team. _Do something_ , he thinks at Bokuto, staring at him, and then looking meaningfully at Sakusa. Bokuto's eyes widen and glint in acknowledgement. Atsumu doesn't care enough for Sakusa to do something about it himself, but he knows _—_ hopes _—_ that Bokuto will be kind enough to do something about it. Take one for the team, so to speak. 

Bokuto, unfortunately, seems to have thought things through instead of letting his usual exuberance lead the way. He trots over to Atsumu, eyes glowing. 

"I was going to say something about it," he whispers loudly, "when Adriah-san touched him on the shoulder, just now, you know _—_ the first match _—_ " 

Atsumu does know. Sakusa had jerked in surprise, barely concealing his flinch with a quick nod of thanks to Adriah.

" _—_ I was going to say DON'T TOUCH SAKUSA HE DOESN'T LIKE THAT _—_ " Bokuto continues, spitting on Atsumu with the force of his whisper-shout. " _—_ but I think. I THINK _—_ " 

_Damn you and your thinking, Bo_ , Atsumu thinks miserably, wiping the spit off his face with a grimy sleeve. 

" _—_ I think, if Sakusa-kun didn't want to be touched, he would say something about it." Bokuto finishes, satisfied, as if this proclamation has solved Atsumu's problem. _You haven't solved shit_. But he can't argue with Bokuto's logic. 

"When'd he become okay with this?" Atsumu asks, in lieu of trying to defy Bokuto's impeccable argument. 

Bokuto shrugs, gazing at Sakusa as if the force of his stare can unravel that particular mystery. 

"Not during high school _—_ least, that's what Keiji says, not when Fukurodani had practice games with Itachiyama or anything." 

Sakusa Kiyoomi's aversion to touch had been legendary then. _Untouchable on and off-court_ , the rumour-mill whispered, the thrill of being the first to break Sakusa's impassable reserve an unclaimed prize in all the years Atsumu has known him. 

"Maybe he's doing it on purpose," Bokuto theorizes. "You know, new team, new me, something like that?" Atsumu finds himself nodding along. 

They've all changed, along the way, in different ways. High school Miya Atsumu had been a very different monster from professional volleyball player Miya Atsumu. He's sure the same goes for Bokuto, too, and Sakusa _—_ possibly. Different teams bring out the best in them, in different ways. The desire to be good at volleyball, good at playing in a team, good at playing with any and _every_ team _—_ it's a skill that most V-League players have honed to a fine point. Sometimes at the sacrifice of personality-defining traits. Atsumu can actually remember the first and last time he'd gotten into a physical fist-fight with a teammate for looking at him wrong. He'd been recruited into a Division 2 team straight out of high school. Flying high on the wings of his success, Atsumu had promptly made a fool of himself. Some lingering childishness in him had erupted in offense, fists and feet quick to follow. _We don't work like this_ , his captain had warned him, after hauling him and his teammate apart. _One more fight, and you're out, out of this team, and maybe blacklisted from every other professional team in the league_. Atsumu had taken the lesson to heart. It's been a culling, ever since, of the most abhorrent and reactive parts of his personality, along the climb from Division 2 to Division 1. Osamu isn't half as approving as he ought to be. Atsumu thinks maybe Osamu's personality is getting shittier as his gets better, two twins moving in inverse correlation through life. 

Bokuto breaks him out of his musing, throwing a sweaty arm around the back of Atsumu's neck and leaning in close. 

"Anyway, it's up to you to fix Sakusa-kun, 'Tsumu. Or we'll take this last set from you." 

Bokuto cackles, whoops loudly right in Atsumu's ear, and jogs off back to his side of the court. Atsumu takes a deep breath, and puts the question of Sakusa aside. He's patient enough now to wait for practice to end before starting a fight. It's not like Sakusa's doing _badly_ , not by a long stretch. Their second-string libero on the other side of the net can barely touch his spikes. Atsumu stretches and moves back onto court, feeling for Sakusa in his periphery. 

Sakusa, to his credit, looks like he's recovered some of his scattered nerves during the break, and even manages to pull off a passably friendly low-five with Inunaki as he swaps places with the libero. The set goes by quickly _—_ Bokuto's team does not win, with Barnes and Sakusa proving too much for the weaker receives on the other side of the net, and Inunaki's block follow-ups getting faster and more accurate. They win, and Sakusa endures the last of the high-fives and back slaps, limp as a ragdoll. Sakusa could have played a little better, and Atsumu has a mild internal crisis over whether he cares enough to do anything about it. Ah, the inherent moral responsibilities of professional adulthood. 

* * *

Bokuto comes back up to Atsumu after, full of praise for how well Atsumu's team played; wanting to dissect some of their better plays. It's flattering, but Atsumu is tired, and mildly wishes Bokuto was still the same volatile person who'd go quiet and sulky after a loss. But Bokuto's a happier man and Atsumu's a kinder man, now, so he says nothing and lets Bokuto talk. Bokuto rambles all the way through the locker room and shower room, back through the locker room, and finally ( _finally_ ) leaves Atsumu in peace with one last parting shot _—_

"Sakusa-kun's our teammate now, 'Tsumu, we gotta _take care_ of him." 

With that, Bokuto leaves. Atsumu's pants are still half on, and _—_ and _why is Bokuto leaving and making this his problem, now?_ Atsumu's the only other person left in the locker room save for Meian, who's giving him a vaguely concerned look, and Sakusa, who dragged himself into the shower as soon as he walked in five minutes ago. 

"What exactly are you two planning to _—_ " Meian pauses to make air quotes with his fingers, " _take care_ of?" 

"Uh, 's nothing, Cap'n _—_ " Atsumu starts, but it's a hopeless defense. 

Meian is turning to face him squarely, eyes going very stern, arms coming up to cross impassively against his iron wall of a chest; immediately Atsumu is just a young, confused volleyball player who will gladly share his worries and accept his captain's advice. 

"It's _—_ ah _—_ Sakusa." Atsumu confesses, _cursing_ Bokuto for his big mouth. Meian looks unimpressed. 

"Sakusa, he doesn't like to be touched, y'know, like _—_ like what the team was doing, high-fives and all that, he doesn't like it." Meian's eyebrows are slowly climbing up his forehead. Atsumu _curses, really curses_ , Bokuto. 

"'s been that way since high school, really! Bo, _—_ ah, Bokuto and me, we knew 'im, he's got some germ thing or some touching thing or something like that, he don't like to be touched, he plays better if you leave 'im alone, I've seen 'im play better, really _—_ " 

Meian cuts him off with one raised palm. 

"So Sakusa doesn't like to be touched. That's fine. Do I need to speak with the team about this?" 

No. _Oh God, no_. 

"No," he squeaks out to Meian. "I'll, uh, I'll talk to Sakusa, we'll figure it out. Thanks Cap'n." 

Meian nods, approves. Atsumu feels like he's sweaty enough to need another shower. 

Then Meian uncrosses his arms and melts back into non-captain mode, humming tunelessly as he packs up to leave. _How does he do it_ , Atsumu wonders. How do captains just _—_ go all captain-like and terrify the hell out of everyone _just like that_. Atsumu remembers Kita; the way he'd both terrified and taken care of Atsumu, bought him umeboshi and snacks and told him to take it easy. Atsumu remembers how hard it had been, when it was his turn to captain Inarizaki. He'd always had high expectations and no patience for fools. Kindness had not come naturally to him.

Well. Sakusa's officially his problem now, and he's still in the shower. Atsumu puts on the rest of his clothes and saunters outside to buy a couple of drinks.

* * *

When Atsumu emerges out into cold evening air, his breath puffs out in front of him. He pulls a couple of crumpled bills out of his pocket as he reaches the glow of the machine _—_ POTARI SWEAT, SPORTS JELLY, HOT/COLD COFFEE, HOT/COLD TEA. 

He thinks about Sakusa, shaking with exhaustion at the end of practice, looking like he needed something to hold on to. Tea, then. _Sencha, Matcha, Hojicha—_ yes. Something less caffeinated, for this time of the night. 

The night is quiet, dark, silent save for the sound of the vending machine hissing and clinking as it dispenses two small bottles of hot _hojicha_. Atsumu walks back to the locker room, warming his hands with hot tea, and thinks about how to talk to Sakusa. 

When he comes back into the locker room, Meian is gone. Sakusa is sitting in a little nook, leaning against the wall fast asleep. 

Atsumu cracks open one bottle of tea and sits down to wait. The hojicha is hot and soothing; its smoky, earthy taste settles some of Atsumu's annoyance, and he shuffles through a few versions of the forthcoming conversation. 

_You scored four service aces during practice today. I scored five. Do better. What the fuck is wrong with you? Just tell the team to lay off. Don't ever run away from one of my sets like that again. Coward._

Atsumu feels the weight of Meian's trust, and the years of Kita's steely gentleness. He re-shuffles his thoughts into something approximating _kind_ , and plops himself down in front of Sakusa. A man can't wait all night. 

"What." Sakusa says. His eyes are heavy with exhaustion. 

Atsumu gives him the bottle of tea. Sakusa unhooks his mask and drinks, and it throws Atsumu for a second. He hadn't expected Sakusa to even entertain him. 

Atsumu reaches out towards Sakusa's knee, exactly as far as he knows he can go without setting Sakusa off. 

"No touch rule still applies then, Omi-kun?" Sakusa hadn't flinched away, but Atsumu doesn't miss the way his eyes go hard. 

Sakusa doesn't answer. 

"If it bothers you so much, why din'cha just tell the team not to touch you?" 

Sakusa shrugs, exhaustion seeping back into his eyes.

"I miscalculated." He tells Atsumu, and the sheer absurdity of Sakusa Kiyoomi admitting he's _wrong_ sets Atsumu off. 

He laughs and laughs, utterly delighted at the way Sakusa's face goes from morose to despairing in the span of seconds. It's not a look he'd ever thought he'd see on Sakusa's face. Sakusa's not half as uptight as Atsumu expected. He's softer, easier to read, in some indefinable way. His face no longer holds the cold, cruel disdain it used to in high school. Sakusa's just sitting there, looking openly depressed, and Atsumu feels the instant urge to needle him some more. 

"Thought you were gonna die, Omi-kun—your face, when Barnes slapped you—" Sakusa's face goes completely sour, and it makes Atsumu laugh even harder. 

Sakusa clicks his tongue, annoyed, and maybe Atsumu’'s pushed him too far—but then Sakusa laughs, too, an unexpected huff of laughter, then a sigh. Atsumu is caught completely off-guard. 

"Omi-kun!" Atsumu's stunned at at the sight. "So you _can_ smile." 

Sakusa scowls at him, but it's too late. Atsumu's in a good mood now.

"I'll tell the team not to touch you, how 'bout that? You're not playin' your best and I know it. Wanna see how good you can get when you ain't jumping like a rabbit every time someone gets near you." 

Sakusa thinks about it for a second, face dark. 

"Fine." 

"Sure, sure. Anything for you." 

"You suggested it yourself, Miya."

Atsumu laughs again, pleased at how well this conversation went. 

He stands up to leave, but there's just one more thing he wants from Sakusa. 

"How many service aces didja' get through in practice today?" 

Sakusa's eyes go hard, and the sudden cold stillness of his face takes Atsumu back to _seventeen, Interhigh_ , to the first taste of playing against an untouchable, stone-cold freak. _Freak_. 

"Four," Sakusa answers, like he has to search for it. 

Atsumu's already holding up a hand with four fingers outstretched by the time the word _four_ makes it out of Sakusa's mouth. 

"Four," Atsumu repeats after Sakusa, enjoying the way Sakusa's face shifts imperceptibly; enjoying the way Sakusa looks when he knows he's beat. 

Atsumu lets his thumb uncurl from behind his palm, turning his hand from _four_ to _five_. Sakusa shoots him a look of pure hate, and it goes straight into Atsumu's heart. 

He smirks, enjoying the moment. Then the ghost of Kita squeezes at his conscience, and Atsumu thinks he's done enough for today. 

"'m headin' off," he tells Sakusa, giving him one last smile for good measure. "Seeya tomorrow morning. Eat a proper dinner and get a good night's sleep!" 

Atsumu leaves, taking the sight of Sakusa's hateful face with him out into the cold night. 

The quiet resignation of what Sakusa says: 

_I miscalculated. Four._

And what he doesn't say: 

_Don't you dare look down on me. I'll do better. I'll beat you._

_—_ it thrills Atsumu down to his toes. He can still feel the hot hate in Sakusa's eyes, still feels light at the gorgeous incongruity of having heard him laugh. 

Atsumu grins, even though Sakusa's not around to be annoyed by it. 

_Problem solved._

* * *

Atsumu's a man of his word, rekindled rivalry aside. He dredges up some memory of the way Sakusa had obliterated a middle blocker who'd touched him one too many times at camp, and embellishes it for good measure. _Didja know Omi-kun once broke a man's wrist for touching him_ , he tells the team. Tragic, but deserved. Ended his career. Destroyed him completely. Blew a hundred untouchable spikes off his arms on court and then dislocated his wrist for good measure after. You don't want to touch Omi-kun, believe me. 

Adriah doesn't look like he believes a word of what Atsumu says. But he does nod at Sakusa in apology, so Atsumu chalks that up as a success. 

Barnes looks utterly devastated. 

"AH—Sorry, mate—" he says, in English. Atsumu laughs at the way Sakusa's face goes constipated. 

"I am—sorry, Sakusa," Barnes continues, in halting Japanese, nearly slamming his forehead straight into Sakusa's as he tries to bow. 

"No, no, not at all," Sakusa says, bowing even lower, and Atsumu can admit he hadn't entirely helped Sakusa out of the altruistic goodness of his heart. Watching Sakusa try to communicate with Barnes is the funniest thing that's happened to him in months. 

"I will not." Barnes proclaims, snapping back upright. Sakusa nods, faint. 

Atsumu _laughs_ , drinking in the sheer bewilderment on Sakusa's face. 

Sakusa sneers at him over Barnes' enormous shoulder. 

" _Mate_ means friend," Atsumu tells him, later. "You can try it in the morning, tell him _G'day, mate_. He'll like that."

Sakusa gives him a deeply disbelieving look. Atsumu desperately prays he's around the first time Sakusa tries to say this to Barnes. 

" _Goodaay, mate_ ," Sakusa repeats, with startling earnestness. He repeats it to himself softly, nodding slowly. Atsumu suddenly feels like maybe Sakusa does belong here, after all. 

He watches Sakusa carefully for a while, after, half out of goodwill and half out of the deadly instinct to be _better_ than Sakusa. Somehow the victory feels sweeter when he knows he's up against Sakusa at his full potential. The team still touches Sakusa, sometimes, and it irritates Atsumu in some inexplicable way. It's like they're taking health points off an enemy that's his to take down, only he can't possibly go to Sakusa's defence without looking like he's on Sakusa's side. Sakusa learns, eventually, to keep the team at arm's length. Oftentimes he does this by standing close enough to Atsumu to insinuate that they're having a conversation, warding off interaction from anyone else. Atsumu takes every single one of these opportunities to tell Sakusa what the current tally of service aces between them is. As if Sakusa doesn't know. 

The enmity in his heart waxes and wanes as Sakusa slowly earns his place on the team. Atsumu means it with all his heart when he says _nice serve, that was sick, Omi-kun_ ; but every perfect serve twisting off Sakusa's palm drives him feral with the need to improve his own serves. Against someone born with the advantage of double-jointed wrists, there's only so much he can do. Atsumu does it all. He watches, he learns; jump floaters, spike serves, hybrid serves that drive him to tears and an absolute meltdown at Onigiri Miya in front of Osamu. He calls Sakusa _Omi-kun, Omi-Omi_ , and, when Hinata joins the Black Jackals, he teaches Hinata _Omi-san._ Sakusa is currently winning at the game of who-scores-more-service-aces, but the tormented face he makes whenever one of the Jackals says _Omi—_ is worth it. It's a fair trade. 

* * *

Atsumu reaches an equilibrium with Sakusa quickly enough. They're both the only ones in the locker room early in the morning, and by tacit agreement they both hold their peace. Atsumu listens to his music and does his exercises while doing his best not to look at Sakusa doing yoga. Sakusa spends most of the time with his eyes closed, which hurts Atsumu's ego a little—maybe a lot—but is probably for the best. 

After exercising, Atsumu's voice finally wakes up, and he starts talking to Sakusa. More accurately _—_ he starts talking _at_ Sakusa. Sakusa, despite being awake and incredibly athletic at 6 AM every morning, is emphatically not a morning person. He communicates in scowls and grunts and half-hidden stares, mouth pinched shut and eyes glowering from behind a curtain of damp curls. 

Atsumu is enthusiastically charmed by this. 

"Omi-kun," he wheedles, "—come sit with me. Watch the sun rise and eat breakfast with me." 

There isn't actually any visible sunrise to see so deep in the city, just the faint lightening of the cold winter sky. The fact that Sakusa cannot find the words to articulate this and ends up sitting in resigned silence next to him gives Atsumu great joy. Sakusa Kiyoomi, unexpected companion. 

"Isn't the sunrise beautiful," Atsumu says, every morning. 

Every morning, Sakusa silently glares at the pale strip of sky visible between the gym and the nearby housing blocks, and says nothing. Sakusa is a terrible breakfast companion, and Atsumu would not trade him for the world. 

Once, Atsumu's too tired to do his usual morning spiel.

"Aiko's sick," he tells Sakusa forlornly, "—stayed up half the night with her." 

Aiko is the only Miya Atsumu loves. She's eight, unspeakably precious, and down with pneumonia. Not sick enough for the hospital, but sick enough to drive Atsumu mad with worry. He'd stayed on video call, watching her cough herself awake and soothing her back to sleep til she'd slept quietly for long enough that he'd fallen asleep too. 

**How is she this morning** , he texts his mother. **Let me know when she's awake.** There's no reply. **I'll video call again tonight.**

Sakusa shuffles off instead of sitting with him, and Atsumu is both hurt and offended. He bites into his onigiri with unnecessary force, and ends up biting his own lip. Hurt, offended, _and_ mortally wounded, he doesn't hear Sakusa coming back at all, and shrieks in surprise when a hot can of coffee lands on his knee. The thunderous expression on Sakusa's face almost makes him bite his lip all over again. 

"Omi-kun," Atsumu lisps, tasting blood but touched to tears, "I knew you loved me." 

Sakusa heaves a long, heavy sigh, and says nothing. They watch the sky lighten together. 

**Aiko's better** , his mother texts back later that morning. She sends a picture of Aiko sitting up in bed with a bowl of ochazuke, and Atsumu breathes easy again. 

* * *

Every morning Atsumu finds a new question to ask Sakusa.

_Do you think the sky would be as beautiful if it wasn't blue?_

_Birds fly South in winter, right? D'you think they'd know how to walk South if they couldn't fly?_

_Do you think the dinosaurs were scared when the first snowflake fell?_

And then, when he runs out questions:

_Isn't the sunrise beautiful?_

Every morning, Sakusa contemplates the sky in grave silence. 

* * *

Sakusa comes alive as the rest of the team trickles in, learning to talk word by word as if he's putting up his defences spike by spike. 

"Morning," Sakusa says to Inunaki. 

"G'day, mate," Sakusa says to Barnes. 

"Don't touch me, pipsqueak," Sakusa says to Hinata. 

"You are the last person on earth I could ever be prevailed upon to share an ice-cream with at seven AM in morning," Sakusa says to Bokuto. Bokuto, who has good intentions but arguably dubious taste in breakfast foods, shares his ice-cream with Hinata instead. Atsumu downs the last of his breakfast quickly. 

By the time practice starts, Sakusa's come almost entirely alive. He glances at Atsumu, mouth curling into a challenge that sets Atsumu's heart on fire. 

"Do your best, Miya." 

The goodwill of the morning vanishes. Atsumu's age regresses by five years on court, and when Sakusa drops his mask and smirks _like that_ —well. 

* * *

The days pass, and the sun rises earlier and earlier each day as Spring comes. 

Then Summer, then Autumn, then Winter again. 

In the mornings Sakusa still sits in silence, face tilted into the light. 

He never laughs at any of Atsumu's jokes, but he never leaves, either. Not unless it's to buy Atsumu the occasional can of coffee, or to bring him a piece of fruit. 

In the mornings Atsumu watches as Sakusa stretches his wrists out, rotating them in every direction to their full extension. Sakusa frowns, carefully testing each joint on every finger, ligaments creaking and joints popping. Sakusa's wrists wreak havoc on court, fast and flexible. The way they twist in the morning light makes Atsumu's stomach turn. Atsumu watches the way Sakusa's hands flex and bend as he massages his own wrists, strong and sure, and feels something like greed. 

* * *

Atsumu notices the way Sakusa holds his hands, limp and careful, when they're not in his pockets. He doesn't put his hands in his pockets unless they're clean. After games and post-game interviews, Sakusa pans his head carefully, seeking out the nearest source of soap and water. Then he lopes off, hands twitching, and returns, hands safely ensconced in pockets.

Atsumu likes to think he's not half as uptight as Sakusa is. But he's a setter, and he doesn't like having his fingers taped. All it takes is one bad nail infection, one microscopic cut acquired unnoticed mid-game, one careless set or spike bruising his fingertips. Examining his hands after every match becomes second nature, and it's easier to spot any issues when they're clean. He takes his cue from Sakusa eventually, waiting for him to locate the nearest washroom and trotting after him to wash his own hands. Sometimes Sakusa can't find one within his immediate line of sight. Then his face goes childishly murderous, glaring petulantly at walls as if he can summon a washroom. _Cute_. 

Sakusa washes his hands with textbook thoroughness. It's a whole ten-step routine that lasts exactly thirty seconds long each time. Atsumu pushes soap around his palms and fingers, searching for the telltale sting of a cut, and watches Sakusa wash his hands like a preschooler. Step by step. Hands sliding together, fingers interlocked. Palms over the backs of his hands, left then right. Curling his hands together carefully, soaping his nails. Then moving on to wash his thumbs, then his palms, then his wrists. He wonders if Sakusa sings the hand-washing song in his head while he does this. Every routine show culminates with Sakusa whipping a clean handkerchief out of his pocket and sinking his hands into it with a happy sigh. 

There's a definite sparkle to Sakusa every time he does this, eyes light with relief. 

It reminds Atsumu of the way Sakusa looks in the morning, dark eyes reflecting the pale sky. 

In the afternoons the glowing heat of long hours of practice steams between them as they talk, discussing new plays. Sometimes alone, sometimes joined by Bokuto and Hinata. Sakusa's face gets darker and darker as more people appear to join impromptu practice; it makes Atsumu treasure each morning, each soft sunlit expression on Sakusa's face even more. 

In the evenings Sakusa takes a long time showering after practice, and Atsumu can never wait to go home. But sometimes he leaves a hot bottle of tea beside Sakusa's bag.


	2. Chapter 2

Sakusa's wearing a different kind of mask. 

A pale blue, triple pleated surgical mask. It crinkles awkwardly at the folds, turning the lower half of his ( _stupid, bastard_ ) face into a oddly geometric turnip. It doesn't fit as well as his regular ( _white_ , _3-ply_ ) mask. 

It's the end of afternoon training, and most of the Jackals have trickled out of the showers and towards home. Atsumu is straddling the bench in the locker room, pawing around in his bag for new socks when it happens. 

The sides of Sakusa's new mask end just a little bit further away from his ears, exposing just a little more pale skin, and when Sakusa turns to his locker in a quick jerk of dark curls, the mask shifts just enough to expose a constellation of tiny moles dotted softly on his left cheek.

The sudden and thoroughly unexpected desire to press his fingers, his mouth, _more—_ against that soft series of dots hits Atsumu so hard he stops breathing for a good three seconds. Then, very slowly, and absolutely casually _—_ he releases his breath in a ( _slow, natural_ ) exhale, and turns back to his duffel bag, heart shaking.

He is _so, so, fucked_.

* * *

The soul-crushing despair of realizing he is mortally attracted to _Sakusa Kiyoomi_ takes Atsumu a good 72 hours to process. 

He keeps playing, as well as he usually does. Keeps talking, too, in the locker room, cackling at his own jokes and _not_ looking to see if Sakusa's listening. 

What he does not, _extremely intentionally_ , do _—_ is reach out for Sakusa the way he usually does. It’d become second nature, to reach out to him at carefully measured distances, to press his fingertips against the invisible boundary between _wanting to touch_ and _not wanting to be touched_ that characterized Sakusa's prickly existence. Seventeen-year-old Atsumu had clapped Sakusa on the arm, once, the first time they were on the same side of the net at the All-Japan Training Camp. Sakusa had flinched away so violently, eyes screaming so hard (so _scared_ ) that Atsumu had actually felt _guilty_. Not a feeling he was well-acquainted with, and not one that he cared to keep in regular roster. _Omi-kun_ , he'd christened Sakusa by the end of the day, taking the edge off his guilt by poking at Sakusa. Little sea-urchin. Sakusa had scowled, fierce, and refused to call him _Atsumu_. 

_He's a freak_ , the players at the camp had muttered, giving Sakusa a wider berth by the second day. _I heard he slapped Ito for touching him_. Atsumu's here to play volleyball, not to make friends. He doesn't care. All he knows is Ito's a dumbass of a middle blocker who thinks he's becoming a better spiker by the day _—_ as opposed to just hitting better sets thanks to Atsumu. Atsumu still sees him trying to catch Sakusa alone, hand darting out, jabbing at him like an incessant mosquito. _Do you want to die_ , Sakusa says, voice flat, eyes tight. Ito jabs at him again. The next day Sakusa blows every single twisting spike and serve straight off Ito's hapless blocks and receives. Again, and again, and again, and by the end of the day Ito is silent with humiliation and Sakusa's bubble of personal space shimmers around him as if it's real.

The whispers are right. Sakusa Kiyoomi is untouchable. 

So Atsumu learns, in angles and inches and seven years, across camps and practice matches and _real_ matches, how close he is allowed to come. Not-touching Sakusa is the difference between serving and setting. The difference between the rough approximation of a full-palm slam versus the moment he is able to feel, as if the ball is translucent, the flattened tips of each finger as it pushes the ball away. Atsumu is, above all else, a setter. He learns to not-touch Sakusa with ten fingertips.

By the time they become teammates, Atsumu is a master of _not-touching_. Once Sakusa shrugs off his new member nerves and learns to demand his space, Atsumu becomes the only member of the Black Jackals that doesn't get sneered at to stay away. He is very proud of this. He can reach out without thinking, palm down and fingers crooked, to the space a volleyball's width above Sakusa's elbow and half that distance to his upper arm. 

It's a matter of practice. Like serves. Like sets. All good things come with practice. 

* * *

Now, though. Now he thinks he wants to touch _so much_ that he won't be able to keep his stupid hand hovering, that he'll get carried away, put too much strength into the _reaching out_. Atsumu dedicates a quarter of his internal monologue to replaying the dreaded sound of a referee shouting _OUT!_ after a serve with just a touch too much force, and _keeps his hands to himself_. 

He is the master of his body. He will overcome this. He will not have a breakdown. 

He calls Osamu. He breaks down. 

" _—_ have some PITY, ‘SAMU" he screeches down the line. Osamu isn't even shocked enough to laugh properly. Atsumu has freaked out about wanting to touch a grand total of thirty-two people in the last seven years. The fact that Osamu sometimes genuinely pities his brother does not override the instinctive desire to cause him the greatest possible misery at this moment. 

"Ha," Osamu intones. At regular intervals. 

" _—_ and I'm not sayin' I really wanna touch 'im or anything _—_ "

"Ha." 

" _—_ cos I DON'T, 'Samu, he's GROSS _—_ " 

"Ha." 

"'SAMU, you gotta help me out, how _—_ " 

"Ha." 

" _—_ how'm I supposed to LIVE?" 

Atsumu pants down the line, one _Ha_ away from hanging up. Osamu clears his throat delicately. 

"At least he's on your team, you can live happy looking at 'im even if you never touch 'im."

Atsumu hangs up. 

* * *

That conversation happens in the afternoon on the first day of his terrible, _Sakusa-wanting_ new reality. Atsumu spends the next sixty-four hours strategizing and agonizing in turns. He powers his way through the rest of the day, eating dinner with undiminished appetite and barreling through the night's work of plotting out new plays. Then he goes for a run, and replays the sick moment Sakusa turns to his locker, his _cheek_ , wanting to _touch—_ he runs and runs until the image is irrevocably seared with the feeling of lung-burning, leg-shaking, light-headed exhaustion. Then he goes home, showers, and collapses into bed. He thinks about _touching_ , and catalogues the not-insignificant amount of information he possesses regarding _Sakusa_ and _touching_. 

Personal boundaries aside, Sakusa isn't entirely opposed to being touched, within the strict frames of _socially required_ and _not unanticipated_. Atsumu recalls all the times Sakusa has had to hold a child's grimy, germy hand onto the court before games. He'd laughed at Sakusa once, outright cackled in his scrunched up face. But the kid had been wide-eyed, awestruck, and Sakusa had even managed to creak out a smile for him.

Atsumu has actually shaken Sakusa's hand eight times under the net since they first met. The burning hindsight that cheerfully tells him they were _holding hands_ does not lessen the anticipation that they could, in future, hold hands. Again. Maybe. _Hold hands_. Kiss. Have sex. Hell, Atsumu has actually once come very, very close to kissing Sakusa. He'd been kissing his way through the Jackals in an easy-peasy game of gay chicken, and Sakusa had been next on his list. Then Meian had appeared, in all his formidable captain-like glory, and the game had been swiftly put to an end. Atsumu thinks about what it would feel like to hold Sakusa's hand. To kiss him. To—Atsumu closes his eyes, and very resolutely thinks about nothing until he falls asleep. 

* * *

The next morning Atsumu is more subdued than usual while watching the sky beside Sakusa, too busy thinking to chatter at him. 

Atsumu thinks about how Sakusa never says _don't touch me_ ; how Sakusa trusts him to understand his boundaries; how when it comes to boundaries and volleyball Sakusa never volunteers the _why_ , only _how._

_What would it cost_ , Atsumu wonders, _to kiss someone like Sakusa?_

Atsumu doesn't know if it would be worth it. 

He's annoyed at how much it scares him. How cowardly he is when push comes down to shove. 

He's so scared of it he almost forgets how much he wants Sakusa, how good Sakusa might taste. 

Atsumu doesn't always like making out, can't stand the way it leaves him aching and hungry for more, the way it's always in danger of being cut short by a quick change of mind. If he has a choice he'd rather cut straight to the chase, straight to pushing or being pushed down, falling backwards into bed. Nothing beats the sweet hot friction of two bodies in tandem, and the mindless bliss of falling asleep after. 

If there's one thing Atsumu makes sure of it's to never touch anyone who matters, anyone who matters to him. His hands are clean, his heart unbroken. 

_As long as you don't actually fall in love with him it's fine_ , Atsumu reasons to himself. 

_As long as he doesn't actually fall in love with you your hands will stay clean._

_As long as no-one falls in love you'll both be fine_. 

The thought comforts him. 

Atsumu vividly remembers the high school confession that still haunts him sometimes. He hadn't touched people so carefully then. But one day someone important takes his hand and leads him behind a storage shed. Atsumu laughs, looking forward to pressing himself up against them; the same way he'd done it the past half dozen times, in between pressing himself up against half a dozen other people. The next few minutes he'd had his soul painted black, dark blossoms of guilt blooming in his chest. 

_I like you_ , his volleyball captain is saying.

Atsumu barely hears him over sudden roar of regret in his ears. 

He's careful about who he touches, after that. 

* * *

Atsumu keeps watching Sakusa, the next few weeks. He stops reaching out to Sakusa, afraid of pressing too close in a moment of weakness. He still says _Omi-kun_ when he tosses to Sakusa, but sometimes he can't bear to look Sakusa in the eye. If Sakusa notices, he doesn't say anything about it. 

Sakusa taunts him, on court. His smirks are devastating, and the way he laughs when Atsumu flubs a serve makes Atsumu's skin burn. 

Several things happen, in the span of those few weeks. 

* * *

One time, the company brings in a new shipment of volleyballs. 

They're not the usual kind. 

Atsumu sniffs at them, drags his fingertips against the brand new surface. He wonders if something like this would really make a difference in the game. 

It matters. 

"Molten's latest model," the team manager tells them. "Sweat and dust resistant. Less sticky than the previous one, but more consistent over a match. Try it." 

Atsumu's curious. 

He touches the ball carefully. It lacks the deep grooves between panels, so there's more surface area in contact with his hand. 

"Who picked this?" he asks her. "Interesting choice. I'll try it today." 

"They picked us," she says, smiling, and throws him two brand-new volleyballs. 

Atsumu grins, and heads to training. 

* * *

After practice, he evaluates and inspects them again. 

They feel slightly smaller than the volleyball he'd gotten used to playing with. The volleyball he's holding now is perfectly round and solid, heavy in his palm. There's a difference _—_ a definite difference, in the way it moves on court. It spins more on both attack and serve, with more surface area against his palm. It flies straight and true, with less bounce, less give. It doesn't shake and swerve in the air, and sometimes that's a waste of perfectly good float serve. 

Atsumu sighs. 

He'll take the consistent, reliable performance of this volleyball over the riskier option. Float serves aren't the only way of earning points, and he has plenty of time to bend this volleyball to his will. 

Wordlessly, he sends perfect sets to Sakusa for hours after training ends. 

They pant in the evening air. 

Their plays are fast and sweet. Atsumu closes his eyes and lets his head fall back, sweat dripping off his jaw.

"I really like this new volleyball. You?" Sakusa asks. 

Atsumu smiles and nods, eyes still closed. 

* * *

Another time, Atsumu forgets to bring his breakfast. 

He's hungry and annoyed after his morning workout, and sits sulking and sucking at a sports jelly drink. Sakusa hasn't come out to join him yet, too preoccupied with washing fruit in the locker room sink. 

When Sakusa finally emerges, he hands Atsumu a pear. 

"Nijuseki," Sakusa says, " _—_ it's good. Supposedly." 

He drops down beside Atsumu, and bites into his own pear. 

Atsumu blinks, watching the quiet way Sakusa chews and swallows. 

Then he turns to the pear, hungry, and demolishes it in loud crunching bites. 

It's good, sweet and juicy and perfectly ripe. Atsumu's tried nijuseki pears before, though they aren't as common as the usual kosui pears. Rough and crisp, golden skin and white flesh. 

It tastes _so good_ , and Atsumu doesn't know how to thank Sakusa for it. 

"Isn't the sunrise beautiful?" Atsumu asks, instead.

Sakusa smiles, pleased.

* * *

The next morning, Atsumu notices Sakusa frowning and twisting his wrists. 

Sakusa's just washed his hands after his morning yoga, and it's when he usually stretches them. 

Twisting carefully at his own joints, fingers solemn and slow, curling against pale skin. 

He's thinking about his wrists, Atsumu knows. 

* * *

There'd been one injury, in their time together as teammates. Not a major one, just a sprain. It'd sent Sakusa into a downward spiral for days. _It hurts_ , he'd complained, showing up at training despite not being able to play. 

Sakusa hovers on the sidelines, getting in the way. 

Someone offers him painkillers. 

Sakusa shakes his head, and turns bitterly away. 

"It won't make it better," he says. 

"It won't make it heal faster, but it'll help with the pain." 

Sakusa shakes his head again. 

"It won't help," he tells Atsumu later, during a water break. "And that's not even the worst of it." 

"I know," Atsumu consoles. "The worst part is you've scored zero service aces today, and I've scored eight." 

Sakusa glares at him, murderous, and goes to tell Coach Foster he'll take the day off after all. 

The fact that Sakusa hadn't corrected Atsumu's wildly inflated score just confirms how much he needs the break. Sakusa's departure is excellent for team morale.

 _Thank you_ , Meian mouths at Atsumu. 

Atsumu grins. 

* * *

Sakusa frowns at his wrists, and Atsumu wonders if he's ever going to stretch them. 

Then Sakusa starts pinching crossly at the tendons on the back of his hand, and something in Atsumu stiffens in fear. 

"Don't do that." Atsumu tells Sakusa. "Where's the thing?" 

"There," Sakusa murmurs, jerking his head at the tube of anti-inflammatory gel. 

Atsumu huffs, and grabs it. 

"Hand," he orders. 

Sakusa quietly offers him his wrists. Atsumu squeezes a long strip of clear gel over each wrist. 

Sakusa rubs it in. 

Atsumu watches him. 

"Why are you doing this." Sakusa asks. Soft, suspicious.

He sounds exactly like Osamu on a bad day, unable to believe Atsumu is capable of kindness. 

Bad days happen to everyone. 

Atsumu shrugs, and helps Sakusa. 

* * *

Yet another time, it's Atsumu's turn to have a bad day. 

The muscle rub burns against his palms, and Atsumu's fingers hurt. 

He curls his fingers, can't quite decide if he should tape them all, or just the one jammed finger. Could be good, to protect his fingers against further injury. Could be bad, could mean less control, less feeling in the most vital part of his body. Could go either way, really, just like his serves. Oh, his serves. Could be the start of the end, if he doesn't get to grips with the hybrid serve soon _—_

"Don't do that," Sakusa snaps, and Atsumu startles. 

He stays quiet while Sakusa primly tears him a piece of tape and drops it into his hand. 

Sakusa's kinder than Atsumu expects. 

"Do it for me," Atsumu says, pushing his luck. 

The tape will probably help, but Atsumu's still bitter about having to do it. His finger still hurts. 

Sakusa sighs. Then he reaches out, slowly. 

Atsumu sees him coming, and almost jerks away. 

Sakusa gently takes Atsumu's jammed finger between forefinger and thumb. His fingers are cool and dry. 

For a long moment Atsumu doesn't breathe. 

It's intoxicating, the feather-light touch of Sakusa's fingers against his, the careful way he winds tape around Atsumu's finger. Atsumu looks at Sakusa, who's looking quietly down at his own handiwork. 

Slowly Sakusa presses down the end of the tape, and Atsumu's finger is enclosed, protected. 

Atsumu breathes again, and finds his voice. 

"This other finger is jammed too," he tells Sakusa. 

Sakusa blinks up at him, unconcerned. 

"It's not." Sakusa says. He releases Atsumu's hand. 

Atsumu lets him go. 

* * *

Then they play the Schweiden Adlers, and Atsumu spends far too much time saying Sakusa's name and watching the way he moves. _Omi-kun_ , he says, again and again. _Omi-omi_. Sakusa never says his name in return, not even _Miya_. But every serve and spike he digs flies up perfectly over Atsumu's head, solid and high and beautiful. Sakusa is so reliable it makes Atsumu's heart ache. And if one or two of Sakusa's passes fall just a little low and short, well. Atsumu's not a setter for nothing. 

Atsumu sees the way Sakusa comes to life when he faces Ushijima Wakatoshi, their rivalry crackling across the court so intensely that the rest of the team feels it, too. Sakusa smiles differently at Ushijima, eyes wide and sparking and alive, mouth curving, soft. The mutual challenge in their eyes spans a hundred matches, maybe years, maybe a decade. Sakusa has eyes for no-one else. He stares across the net at Ushijima like it'll kill him to look away. Sakusa smiles, but his eyes are dead serious when he's playing against Ushijima. It's nothing like the childish games he plays with Atsumu. It's nothing like the careless way he looks at Atsumu, eyes hooded, mouth quirking. 

The match ends, and somehow Sakusa ends up shaking Ushijima's hand under the net. They linger there after. Ushijima says something, and Sakusa says something back, laughing. He hasn't let go of Ushijima's hand, and his head dips down for a moment, damp curls hiding his face. Then they both step back, and Sakusa jogs back to line up with the rest of the team. He's still smiling, all the way ‘til he turns and straightens his face out for the cameras. Atsumu swallows the sudden bitterness in his throat. 

Post-match it's all a bit of a blur, cameras flashing and voices calling out to various members of both teams. Hinata gets pulled away by a sleazy-faced conman, then swept up by the Karasuno alumni. Bokuto disappears to be interviewed by someone, and Atsumu gives up on trying to locate Osamu through the mad throng of customers around his stall. 

When he sees Sakusa quietly slipping away, Atsumu follows. 

Sakusa's humming, eyes light after the quiet dark focus of the game. Atsumu understands why. He'd played well. Scored the first service ace, moved silent and strong through countless plays, not a single wasted movement. 

"Good game," Sakusa tells him. 

Atsumu smiles, surprised. 

It's the first time Sakusa's said _good game_ to him. The way he looks at Atsumu, serious and sincere—suddenly Atsumu wants him, so much, all over again 

Sakusa's sincerity grows, and grows, until Atsumu can't meet his eyes anymore, has to laugh and look away to calm the hunger in his heart. He can't believe Sakusa, can't stand Sakusa suddenly looking at him, taking him as seriously as he takes Ushijima. He catches Sakusa still looking at him in the mirror as he turns away from the sink.

"It really was _—_ a good game. You played well," Sakusa says from behind him.

"Okay," Atsumu answers. He doesn't need to be told. "You coming?"

He listens as Sakusa cuts the tap, counts the seconds it'll take for him to do his little handkerchief routine _—_ one, two, three, four, five. Then Atsumu leaves, just one second sooner than usual, so Sakusa has to open the door for himself. 

* * *

That night Atsumu closes his eyes and thinks about how good Sakusa looks when he comes alive on court. About the way his eyes go wide and dark; about the way he'll sink down low to receive one of Ushijima's serves. About how Sakusa being on the MSBY Black Jackals is just another choice in the long line of choices Sakusa'd take to keep fighting Ushijima. 

Atsumu remembers thinking through things every time he decides to touch someone, to kiss someone. He likes the ones with beautiful, forgettable names; beautiful, forgettable faces. All desire, no guilt. It's the obvious choice. Then there's the slightly riskier option of someone whose name and face he knows he won't forget. Sometimes it's worth it; sometimes it's good enough for Atsumu to want to stay half a dozen nights, each as perfect as the last. 

But now there's the one person Atsumu'd promised himself never to touch. His eyes leave Atsumu breathless with guilt at seventeen, and he spends the next six years safe in the satisfaction of making things right. 

Miya Atsumu wishes the MSBY Black Jackals had never recruited Sakusa Kiyoomi. 

He will definitely tell Sakusa this as soon as he has the chance to. 

**You were wrong** , he texts Osamu, after the Adlers-Jackals match. **I am NOT happy. Having him on the same team is going to KILL me.**

They stay up late into the night rehashing every single one of Atsumu's flings and how Atsumu needs to start treating people as respectfully as he treats volleyball. Osamu has a hundred opinions on love. Atsumu ignores most of them, because Osamu has been dating the same person since high school and clearly doesn't know what he's missing out on. Atsumu remembers the torturous months of looking at Osamu's idiotic, lovesick face in high school; when he'd realised he was in love with one indifferent middle blocker. It'd taken Osamu months to work up the nerve to confess, and his lovelorn face only gets even more disgusting after. Atsumu decides there and then that he will never ever fall in love, or let anyone fall in love with him. 

People are beautiful, and Atsumu wants a new one every other week. Getting to touch them and kiss them and move on to the next beautiful thing is part of what makes life good. Osamu hasn't changed a bit since high school, and he's texting Atsumu things like **True Love is Worth Everything** as if they're still fifteen and unkissed. It makes Atsumu want to scream. It's just a joke he's on the same team as the only untouchable asshole in the whole wide world. 

Atsumu falls asleep thinking about how unlucky he is to be on the same team as Sakusa. 

* * *

The next morning Atsumu wipes the very notion of ever touching Sakusa from his mind, and resigns himself to maybe a week of intolerable misery before he falls for someone else. 

Determined to immediately put into practice this new, improved, and _not-wanting_ Atsumu, he goes in even earlier than usual, intending to get in extra serve practice on top of his usual morning exercises. He expects the locker room to be empty, giving him ample time to wallow in misery before Sakusa shows up. 

What he doesn't expect is Sakusa, sitting quietly and leaning against the locker room wall. 

Sakusa looks up at him, nods. Flicks his eyes away. 

Atsumu is utterly devastated by the sweep of dark lashes, can't look away from the curve of Sakusa's cheek. His throat closes up. Sakusa's starting to frown, and Atsumu wonders if that's a pillow crease on his temple or whether he's just mad to see me _—_

"What is your problem." Sakusa snaps, and oh, how _dare_ he. 

"What's MY problem, assface? I ain't the one walking around looking like something crawled up my ass and died, Omi-kun." 

Sakusa's face pinches up even more, like he's about to fight Atsumu in the morning for once. Atsumu's swift anger crumples up into a tight ball of misery how how awful everything is, he's so tired, he gives up _—_

" _—_ what's a man gotta do to make you smile, huh?" he exhales, turning away. 

"Kiss me." 

Atsumu blinks. Surely he's misheard.

"You _—_ what. You want me. To kiss you." 

"Yes." 

_Oh_ , Atsumu thinks, so hard he almost feels his heart stop. _Oh, yes. I want this_. If Sakusa wants this even half as much as Atsumu does _—_ this will definitely be worth it. 

Sakusa's expression is downright thunderous. Atsumu thinks he might get his face bitten off if he gets any closer. But then something resolves itself behind Sakusa's storming eyes, and he looks up at Atsumu, eyes clear. 

"Lips to lips only," Sakusa says, perfectly composed. "Touch nothing else." 

"Okay," Atsumu agrees. 

Sakusa is still staring, head tilted slightly up, and _wow_ , that's different, _huh_ , seeing him from this angle, sitting languid against the locker room wall, waiting to be impressed. Atsumu feels heat curling in his gut, six and a half years of not touching Sakusa completely forgotten at the prospect of kissing him now. Atsumu leans closer _—_

Gently, ever so gently _—_ he presses his thumbs to the edges of Sakusa's mask, along the sides where they don't quite lie flat against his cheeks. Careful not to touch skin, his thumbs slide back, pulling the fragile fabric taut against impassive lips. Sakusa's next breath exhales, slow, steady, heat and damp spreading and fading almost imperceptibly on the pale blue pleats. The boundary between them is just the mask, so thin Atsumu pretends he can feel the heat of Sakusa's skin against his. 

_Do it slowly,_ he thinks. _Do it slowly in case you never get to do it again—_ but Sakusa looks like he's in a hurry, like he's half a breath away from maybe changing his mind. Sakusa's eyes are so dark Atsumu sees nothing in them. He's so damn beautiful Atsumu hopes like hell he'll enjoy being kissed, because there's no way he can kiss Sakusa once and never touch him again. Then he remembers the bubble of emotional protection afforded by making sure people are on the same page before touching them. He's not willing to regret this. 

"Are you in love with me?" Atsumu asks. 

Sakusa shakes his head, pushing his cheeks against Atsumu's thumbs one after the other.

"But you want me to kiss you?" 

Sakusa nods, slow dip of the chin. Under Atsumu’s thumbs the faintest flush rises.

Very, very carefully, he moves both hands to pinch mask fabric between finger and thumb, and the top edge of the mask crumples downward, lower, lower _—_ fingers v e r y careful not to slip _—_ until it tucks away under a sharp chin. Sakusa exhales. 

The warm puff of air against his jaw heats Atsumu's heart. 

Sakusa's close, so close Atsumu can feel the nervousness rolling off him, and as he presses forward Atsumu's heart twists hard, _wanting_. He closes his eyes. And then soft, sweet lips press against his, and in that moment every wall he'd built up around his heart shakes down to the core, and it's not enough, it's everything, and still he wants more _—_

He forces himself to pull away. Sakusa's already staring up at him.

For a beat neither of them move, then _—_ Atsumu pinches the mask back up over Sakusa's face as fast as he can _without touching_ , without looking at Sakusa, without even breathing. 

And then there's cold air shivering across Atsumu’s face, startling him, reminding him of the distance between them. It pulls the shaking stones around Atsumu's heart back into place, solid and shatterproof. Atsumu breathes. 

Sakusa turns away.

* * *

 _We kissed_ , Atsumu thinks, legs burning, lungs burning, heart burning. _We kissed_. 

He keeps his eyes stoically fixed on Sakusa as he does his own workout, hoping against hope Sakusa will look up at him. His heart is heavy with fear, sharp hot guilt needling at him in the wake of the kiss. 

He bats it away quickly, turning his conscience over cleanly, working out where and when exactly he should have stopped. Working out how to do it all over again without hurting Sakusa. 

Sakusa's eyes, dark with trepidation. 

His hands, twisting nervously. 

His mouth, soft and sweet.

_Kissing him—_

And here Atsumu's heart drops all over again, hot and heavy, beating out of time. 

He should probably never kiss Sakusa again. 

_—_ but his _eyes_. His _hands_ , his _mouth—_

* * *

Half an hour later, Atsumu, sitting on the bench eating breakfast, sees Sakusa coming. Thoughtlessly he shifts aside, making space for Sakusa. 

Sakusa, awake enough to know better, drops down to sit beside Atsumu.

For the first time the silence between them is distinctly uncomfortable. They watch the sky turn light.

Then they both speak at the same time. 

"During practice later _—_ " Sakusa says.

"So about just now _—_ " Atsumu says. 

_I'll never touch you again. It's fine. It's fine if you don't want to._

Atsumu goes silent, confused. The last thing he wants to think about right now is _later._ All he can think about is _just now_. 

"Why'd you kiss me?" Atsumu asks, stalling for time. 

"I miscalculated." Sakusa says. "It won't happen again."

(Atsumu wants it to happen again. Many times, always with Sakusa.)

"So why'd you ask me to kiss you?" 

"I _—_ I wanted to try." 

Sakusa won't look at him. 

"You wanted to try."

"There are many things I want to try," Sakusa tells him.

"Like what?"

Atsumu can't look away from Sakusa. He stares, entranced at the way Sakusa's jaw moves around the sound of the word he wants to say. 

The sky is bright. 

Sakusa's face is smooth, his voice inflectionless when he finally speaks. 

"Sex."

**Author's Note:**

> Art for this fic on Twitter [here!](https://twitter.com/min_mintobe/status/1304767381756026885?s=20)
> 
> This fic started out in April as a quick first kiss scene in response to the sakuatsu week prompt “Masks”. 11k words and 5 months later, it’s morphed into one half of the dual-perspective sakuatsu character study of my dreams. I had so much fun (and so much pain) writing this. I hope it was an enjoyable read! 
> 
> If you’ve also read the Sakusa POV companion fic [parallax error: line of sight](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26213260), I’d love to know which one you read first and how that affected your impression of their relationship! 
> 
> [Here's a twt thread of my thoughts re: Atsumu's growth from high school to Div 1.](https://twitter.com/min_mintobe/status/1277484876564803586)
> 
> [Here's another twt thread on the writing process + my favourite moments in this fic!](https://twitter.com/min_mintobe/status/1308038852074823681?s=20)
> 
> I’m currently working on the sequel to these two fics, which will be a longfic spanning the next five years of their relationship from fwbs to exes to lovers. In between trying to wrangle my 80k WIP into publishable shape, you can find me yelling about sakuatsu on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/min_mintobe)! 
> 
> Thank you again for reading! Comments and concrit will be deeply cherished ♥


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